


Fallen Angels

by hellishxrebukex234



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fallen Angel! Bruce Wayne, Fantasy, Original Characters - Freeform, Pregnancy, Priest! Bruce Wayne, Rape, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:54:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellishxrebukex234/pseuds/hellishxrebukex234
Summary: Demoness is a lonely fallen angel girl looking escape the grip of her evil domestic partner, Master. She is sent to discover the secrets of Father Bruce Wayne, and as such the long thread comes unravelled and many dramatic and impossible events unfold leading to maybe a happy ending!
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Original Female Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

Demoness walked across the roof of the Cathedral in her platform boots, and pondered the last time she saw the moon or stars. She let out a humorless chuckle, it’d been a long time, longer than she could remember. It was always raining in the Gotham, at least, on the nights her master found it worthy to send her outside for whatever use he saw fit. She wished, not for the first time, in the cold evening, that Master saw it fit for her to wear more clothes on her outdoor duties, she was chilled to the bone. If she wasn’t already undead, she would have been caught by exposure for sure.  


She moved her long, graceful tail over her eyes to keep the rain out. She shook her head. She could see nothing of the target on the roof, she would be forced to climb down and into the rectory next door, it went against Master’s wishes but if he wanted any real dirt on Father Bruce, he was going to have to get his hands dirty, or at least her hands, sooner or later. Demoness took a running leap from the gargoyles, grabbed at the bell rope, and repelled down, loudly ringing her chaotic tune from the tower as the rain poured harder and the wind picked up speed.  
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Father Bruce was not the type to turn in early. He sat by his fire, listening to the rain and the hellish cacophony of the bells. Those will surely need repair after winter he mused to himself as he took a sip of warm lemon honey tea. Tomorrow’s homily was meant to cover the necessity of sacrificial love and the right of even the worst to be redeemed through hard work and God’s mercy. Was meant, is the emphasis here, because as of right now the padre was having a hard time concentrating on anything but the eerie sense that not all was right in the neighborhood. As the grandfather clock in his hallway tolled midnight, Father got the urge to check his windows.  


The rain rolled in sheets of the ancient bubbled green glass, which if Bruce was being honest with himself, was hard to see out of on the clearest of days. Lighting struck, thunder rolled, and it was almost as if the rain was coming down in solid sheets against the old stone building. Still, even though he wasn’t sure, he thought he saw a flash of movement in the rose garden, a quick blink of burning yellow eyes, and the shape of a woman. He shook his head. It was much too late, and his mind was playing fanciful games with him, expecting him to believe the rumors of the old priests’. How often had they joked about the devil-woman and her haunted movements?  


“It’s all just superstition.” He said gruffly. He shook his head. He knew better than to let his imagination carry him away like that. He felt the weight of the Saint Michael coin in his pocket, half ashamed that he sought it’s comfort now. Still comfort it did bring.  
Bishop Alfred had warned this day would come. I’m just lonely. He argued against his thoughts. As the rain slowed and he confirmed that whatever it was, it was not still in his garden. He began to undress for bed, thinking one last time, _I’m just lonely, I should ask the parish for a dog. _  
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_Demoness sat outside the Father’s window. She did not need the window exactly to see, she could use magic or even tap into the Father’s own vison to sense what was happening, but sometimes, she longed to be close to humans, even in small insignificant ways. She winced as she saw the scars that lined his back, but something struck her—two large scars over the shoulder blades, these scars she also had. Could it be true then? He was one of the Master’s own—a fallen who had escaped and then turned to the Lord. It is no wonder then why Master was so invested in this particular “mortal.” He was no mortal at all.  
She saw signs of the Master’s handiwork all over the priest toned and attractive body. Burns, bites, cuts, gunshots. He’d been through the gambit and judging by the amount of torture he’d been through; he’d never been particularly good at following orders. He seemed to have new punishments invented just for him. She smiled, maybe, just maybe, she could have a little fun with this one. So much she could ask him! How had he escaped? Why turn to another master? Did he really believe in salvation?  
More importantly, she knew them to be the rejects of heaven, it is why their wings were removed. How could go back to serving what didn’t even acknowledge or want them?  
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___Talk about Daddy issues. _She found no humor in her insight, as it was like looking into a twisted mirror. She knew she longed to forge a connection herself, but still, to submit? To find mercy? This she found almost as disgusting as her circumstances now. What she truly craved was freedom and the ability to forge her own road.  
_Maybe I can take the enlightened Father with me. I sense this work does not suit him well. _  
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_____  
Father Bruce kneeled at the edge of his bed, praying reverently, painfully, but something about him still looked out of place in his comfortable cottage.  
“Damn, he does have a halo.” Demoness whispered to herself, as she noted the faint saintly glow above the priest’s head. This struck a new set of cold questions in her heart. The most important being, are the fallen redeemable?  
The phantom of ache of her wings never seemed more present then right in this moment, as the rain began to turn to drizzle and she felt the cold go through each one of her hollow bones.  
 _Tonight’s the night I defy the Master. I will get my answers. _  
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	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long time between posting! I promise to get a little more consistent about it all!

**Chapter Two**

Father Bruce had fallen into a light and disturbed slumber. He tossed. He turned. He felt restless. As he slept, he felt as though he was not the only presence within his own mind or dreams. It felt as though his memories were mixing with thoughts of another or that someone was picking through his brain for a sense of who he truly was.

As a particularly violent imagine flashed across his vision he jolted out of bed. The clock in the hallway chimed three. Shirtless, cold, and frightened, the good father felt awfully exposed—the clattering of boots down the wooden floors did nothing to ease his sense of the eeriness which hung about the place like thick ash covered spider webs.

“Who goes there? What is the meaning of you breaking in?” His voice held steady, but his hands did not, after all, who knew better than he what the sounds of the night could mean, what kind of creatures it could bring, it could be hiding?

He was answered with silence. But the feeling of another being was persistent, was constant in his body’s reading of the space. His breath came quicker, his hands felt unlike his own.

“Again, I ask, who goes there? What is your purpose? I have no money. I have no qualms.”

He found himself, again, wishing for a dog to be by his side, something to battle the heavy weight of fear this night.

* * *

Demoness could hear in the Father’s controlled voice the edge of fear, but she did not need the tone of his voice to know that. She could smell it. It emanated off of him like a wounded animal’s smell of sweat and blood. She knew that frightened creatures were often the most dangerous to deal with, but at the same time she found the scent intoxicating, invigorating, a sign of a being with something to lose—a reason to stay alive. She wished she could remember when her fear hadn’t smelled so stale on her own skin, when she still had hope and could fear losing it.

She hid next to the grandfather clock. She knew she’d been out much longer than the Master had given her permission to take and that breaking into the priest’s house had not been in her orders, but how could she resist? She was, after all, a being of infinite curiosity. But she also found she was a weakling in answering it, in confronting the being who promised, at least, a new perspective from the last she had heard for who knows how many millennia.

She gasped as a spotlight shined upon her gray and battered skin—she instinctively through her hands up over her face. She shrieked and dissolved into the night, the smell of brimstone left behind.


End file.
